The Guardian Angel

There is an elementary school right across the street from the office where I work.  I drive past the playground every day, and on my trips back from lunch last fall I began to notice somebody special.  He's a little guy, probably six or seven years old.  He has bright red hair, glasses and a wheelchair.  While the other children play on the swings or run among the trees, his wheelchair is parked against the inside of the fence nearest the highway.

He spends his recess watching the cars go by.

I've missed him over the winter months, but now that the days are lighter and warmer, he is once again back at his post.

I feel badly that this little boy can't run and play with the other kids, but rest assured, he is never alone.  Behind his wheelchair stands a brawny man; he has a dark complexion, bushy black hair and beefy arms.  He looks quiet and unassuming; sometimes I've seen them laughing together, but for the most part he simply stands and guards his charge.  It must get tiring at times, I'm sure his job holds many challenges.  But there he is each day, watching over the little boy like a sentry.

He looks the picture of a guardian angel.  And every time I see him, I wonder about mine.

The Bible isn't silent about angels, but in my mind they are shrouded in mystery.  Do I indeed have my very own?  Does he protect me when I forget to lock my door, or prompt me to drive a different route that will keep me from being in an accident?  Maybe his roll in my life is less physical...perhaps God instructs him to comfort me when I'm sad or lonely, or encourage my spirit when I need it.

I wonder if God assigns multiple angels to a disabled child like this special little red head.  Heaven knows he will need angelic assistance as he navigates this world with his limited physical abilities.  Then again , when it comes to the areas of insight and understanding, compassion and faith, I suspect this little boy may run farther and faster than I can.   Maybe I am the disabled one.

And maybe my guardian angel has the harder job after all.

No More Homework

One of my favorite books is called I'll Love You Forever.  It's a children's book about a mother's affection for her child.  Every night she goes into his room and recites this little poem...

I'll love you forever
I'll like you always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be.

As her son grows up, she is seen sneaking into his room at night while he sleeps, scooping him up and reciting her little mantra.  Even when he reaches adulthood and is living across town, the stooped, little old lady drives over, gets a ladder, crawls into his window, pulls him onto her lap and repeats her little ditty. 

If you think it sounds a little creepy, you should read the book.  It's not. 

I'm not going to say any more, I'd hate to ruin the ending for you.  But let me tell you something...

I can totally understand where that fictitious mama is coming from.

In a little over a week, I'll be watching my son graduate from college.  It feels like the end of an era.  Something about the last kid...the youngest kid, being done with something so big...it makes me misty.  Or weepy, depending on my location.

I've loved being a part of my kids' education. The pressure of their homework wasn't necessarily my favorite thing, but editing papers, checking math pages, quizzing spelling words...I liked it all.  From college they often emailed me papers to edit.  This past year, my son has written a column for his university newspaper.  I've really enjoyed reading his rough drafts and appreciate the fact that he still values my red pen.  I don't need it much, though.

Both my kids will have degrees in communications.  They excel at getting their point across.

I shed a few tears when my oldest received her university diploma, so I'm sure there will be plenty for my youngest.  Maybe I'll convince him to keep writing papers for me to edit. 

That would be so much easier than hauling a ladder all the way to Oregon.

Banking Needs

I had been getting phone calls from a guy at a bank I'm unfamiliar with.  He works with new businesses and wanted to know if I had any needs he could help with.  I did, so we made an appointment.

My banker was very excited to meet me.  Like, very.  He was exuberant; he was the Energizer Bunny in a tie. He was very knowledgeable, he treated me like I was important and he was ready to meet my needs.  I liked that.

I’m not sure how our conversation turned personal, I told him I'm a Christian and where I go to church, and for some reason he told me he is living with his girlfriend.  And honestly, I’m not exactly sure where my courage came from.  Our conversation went something like this…

Me:  “So, you and your girlfriend live together?”

Him:  “We do!  In my house.”

“How come you haven’t married her?”

“Oh, I promised her I would.  But I want to save up enough money to buy her a really great ring.”

“You know, nothing says ‘I love you’ like ‘I promise to marry you as soon as I can buy you a ring that makes me look good.’ “

I really had said that out loud.

(Uncomfortable laugh from him.) “She says the size of the diamond doesn't matter, that she just wants to get married.”

“You should believe her.”

“Want to hear something cute?  Her daughter gave me a ring for Christmas because she wants me to marry her mommy so much.  Isn't that just the most adorable thing you've ever heard?”

It wasn't the most adorable thing I'd ever heard.

The conversation drifted back to banking; he wanted to show me how I can personalize my debit card so he whipped out his.  It had a picture of him and his girlfriend on it.  

“Is this her?  She’s absolutely adorable.  I'm surprised you're not fighting off other men."

(Uncomfortable laugh from him.)  “What do you think I should do?”

“Grovel.  Tell her you should have begged her to marry you before you ever moved in together.  Beg her to marry you now.”

We walked over to the tellers, made my first deposit and concluded our business.  He shook my hand and said, “Thanks, it’s been a pleasure being your business banker.”  I looked him in the eye and with a grin said, “It’s been a pleasure being your conscience.”  Then he said, “I promise I'm going to marry her,” and I said, “I'll be checking up on you.”

Isn't that so weird? 

It troubles me that a beautiful young woman with a little girl would expect so little from a man who says he loves her.  And that the man who says he loves her would give so little…under the guise of wanting to give her something so big.

I'm also troubled that some random bank customer he's never met would feel compelled to be so direct with him...and I hope she didn't come across looking like a big jerk.  

I hope I didn't.  He seemed to hear the things I said. 

I came away wondering if someone somewhere was praying for that couple.

Someone is now.

And I really, really hope he was glad he was able to meet my needs.

Skinny Jeans

“Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.”

At least that’s what I told my Weight Watchers group twenty years ago.  I had lost 40 lbs and achieved life time membership status.  They asked me to make a speech, and as I stood there in my size 8 pants, I totally believed what I was saying.

I was young.  I was naïve.  I was motivated.  

I was wrong.

I’ve been perpetually on a diet for most (if not all) of my life.  If my actions are any indication, there are lots of things that taste better than fitting into my skinny jeans.  And the whole food vs. size conundrum pretty much drives me nuts. 

There used to be certain things that would motivate me to lose weight.  A trip to see somebody I haven’t seen in a long time has worked in the past.  So has money; if I’m spending money on a diet program I will be more likely to stick with it.  But neither reason works 100% of the time.  I’m honestly not sure what causes me to make up my mind to lose weight.  I wish I knew; I would put it in a bottle and drink it every time I was tempted by something chocolate and gooey.   

And then I would sell it and be disgustingly rich.

As important as my weight is to me, and as much as it dictates how I feel about myself, it doesn’t seem to matter at all to other people.  When I visited my son in college awhile back, I asked him if he could tell I’d lost 20 lbs.  He said, “I don’t know.  You just look like Mom to me."

A girlfriend at church told me she has a hard time keeping track of when I’m skinny and when I’m fat.  Can’t she tell when half of my wardrobe disappears?  When I start wearing the same thing to church every Sunday, it’s very likely I am fat.

She really needs to pay closer attention.

I'm feeling motivated today, so maybe my mind is made-up to eat right and drop some of my winter hibernation fat.  Maybe I'll stick with it tomorrow, and the next day and the next. Maybe I'll be wearing my skinny jeans before...before....before....

Before I eat one of the chocolate cupcakes sitting in the break room at work.

Pretend

Many moons ago, when my daughter was five, I was putting her to bed and she asked this question…

“Mommy, is the Easter bunny a man dressed up like a bunny, or is it a real rabbit?”

I felt my castle of lies crumbling down around me.  I had to decide…truth or fiction.  Sweat beaded on my forehead.

“Well”, I replied, “There is what’s real about Easter, and there is what’s pretend about Easter.”

That sounded good.

“The fact that Jesus died on a cross for our sins is real.  The Easter Bunny is a game we play.”  I proceeded to explain that her dad and I hid the eggs, filled the baskets…you get the picture.

She looked at me with her big, brown eyes and without missing a beat said, “Is Santa real?” 

Be still my heart.  I was in deep.

“Well, there really was a Santa.”  I dredged up some facts about Ol’ Saint Nick.  “But what’s real about Christmas is that Jesus was born as a baby in a manger.  Santa is a game we play.” 

“So, Santa didn’t bring my doll closet and all the clothes?”

“No, sweetie.  Daddy and I did that.”

“Do other kids know this stuff?” 

“Well, parents tell their kids about Santa at different times.  So it’s important that you not say anything to your friends.  Let their parents tell them when they think the time is right.”

“Okay.  'Night, Mommy.”  She rolled over, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

I left her room with mixed emotions.  I was relieved that the truth was out, but I knew I would be accused of ruining her childhood.  And I was.  But I think if you asked her today, she would proclaim from the rooftops the truth set her free.

The next afternoon I received a call from my daughter’s preschool teacher.  During Show & Tell, my baby girl made an announcement.  She stood up and said, “My mommy says the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus aren’t real.  They are pretend.”  And then she sat down.

Her preschool teacher wasn’t calling to expel her.  She called to warn me to expect hate mail. 

Okay, that's an exaggeration.  But it rings of the truth, doesn't it?

I know parents who go to drastic measures to keep what's pretend about Christmas and Easter alive in the imaginations of their children.  But in retrospect, I'm grateful my daughter asked the questions she did, and I do believe God gave me the words to lead her little heart in the right direction. 

Truth is, the truth is what sets us all free.   

Jesus is what’s real about Easter.

Jesus is what's real about everything.

When Flowers Speak

One rose, one friend says, "You're special, and I'm thinking of you today."

One rose is sweet.

Two roses, two friends say, "We talked about your birthday and wanted you to know we care."

Two roses are wonderful.

Three roses, three friends say, "We really wanted your day to be special."

Three roses are surprising.

Four roses, four friends say, "Better clean up your office because you're expecting company."

Four roses are motivating.

Five roses, five friends say, "Give up counting, girl.  We're going all the way to 50."

Every time I looked up, there was another friend coming in my office door. My coworkers put yellow duct tape arrows on the floor to help direct the traffic.

It was overwhelming.  It was humbling. It was validating.

It was a parade of love.

42 roses, 42 friends say, "You are an important part of our lives."

The roses are unbelievable.  And they smell really good.

She had been scheming for months.  She took time off work, she bought a plane ticket to Alaska.  She got up at 3 am to catch her flight.  It was a huge surprise.

The last roses, brought by one incredible daughter say, "Mom, do you understand how much I love you?"'

50 roses.  One very special day.

And I will never forget what they say.



.

An Easter Poem

It’s Easter in Alaska

And spring is weeks away,

There are no flowers blooming

No green grass on display.

The little girls wear winter coats

Over their Easter dresses,

You never know when you might find

A snowflake in their tresses.

Our egg hunts often happen

Inside our houses warm,

Unless we don our mud boots

And sometimes brave a storm.

Though Easter in Alaska

Does not arrive with spring,

Our hearts still bloom with renewed hope

That makes our voices sing.

For Jesus died to save us

And rose on the third day,

This is what we celebrate

Just in a special way.

So please enjoy your Easter

Proclaim resurrection bold!

And know Alaskans join you

Even if we’re cold.

                KSanders

                2010